by K. J. Larsen
She passed the plate of cookies. “Have another one, dear.”
I took a cookie and broke off a bite with my incredibly strong fingers. “Mmmmm.”
Mrs. Bonham smiled at my nummy noises. “Billy never had a lick of sense. He married a little tramp from Kansas. Nicole something. She showed up here last night. Can you believe the nerve of that hussy?”
I nodded. “Billy said his wife was from Oz.”
“He called her the Tin Woman. No heart. She wasted no time getting here.”
“What did she want?”
“She said Billy had the birthday present he gave her last year. She wanted to look in his room.”
“Did she?”
“Over my dead body. The little tramp broke his heart.”
“Did Nicole say what she was looking for.”
“Diamond earrings. Isn’t that a hoot?”
“You didn’t believe her.”
“She’s a cheap, shiny-bauble-kind-of-girl. She wouldn’t know real diamonds if she held them in her hand.”
Billy was a sucker when it came to women. He deserved better than that.
“I know for a fact that Billy bought a bowling ball for her last birthday. My son was between jobs. I let him use my credit card.”
Billy told me his wife was after the earrings ever since he foolishly told her about them. Even so, I found her rush to Chicago odd.
“If you see Nicole again, would you call me?”
I wanted to know where the Tin Woman was when Billy was killed.
“Of course.” She gave a sad smile. “Billy said you’re a great detective.”
I stood to go. “Mrs. Bonham, you said there was something you wanted to ask me.”
“I want you to find the bastard who killed my son.”
***
I slid behind the wheel of Tino’s Buick with a plastic baggy of tooth-cracking chocolate chip cookies. My cell phone blared “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” I glanced at the number and didn’t recognize it.
“Pants On Fire Detective Agency. We catch liars and cheats.”
“What about big freakin’ loud mouths? A woman like that hanging around my building ain’t good for business. Ya know what I mean?”
“Who is this? What are you talking about?”
“This is Hal Irving, the landlord at Bohnam’s office.” I heard bushy brows darting up and down. “I need you to get down here. Now. There’s a psycho chick storming up and down the halls, throwing a bloody damn temper tantrum that Bill’s not in. I don’t want the bacon brigade rolling through here.”
When police get called to this part of town, they come with more than just one or two cop cars. And someone always gets a free ride to the slammer.
“Okay, I’m on my way. What’s she doing there?”
“Says she’s got an appointment with Bill. She’s freaking the hell out. I tell her ‘he hasn’t been around and he’s not answering his phone.’ Is he freakin’ sick or something?”
“He’s something.”
“So what the hell am I supposed to do with this freakin’ butterfly lady.”
“Butterfly lady?”
“Tell Billy to get his shit together. This ain’t my problem. And if the Five-O get called, he’s out on his ass.”
“I’m almost there.”
I zoomed across Bridgeport and parked in front of Billy’s office in a police only zone. I reached in the glove box and slapped my official police sticker in the window. It was Rocco’s. He finally quit looking for it after a while.
A woman in designer jeans and trailing furs paced the sidewalk in front of Billy’s office. Her hair was candy-apple red, a color you don’t see in nature, and a butterfly tattoo was poised to fly off an ivory breast. Her French perfume was too rich for me to name, and she smelled like cheeky-barmaid-marries-rich-old-fart money.
She stomped a pouty foot. “Billy’s late. I’m Sylvia. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“No one does.” I unlocked the door and she followed me inside
“Be a darling and put this somewhere.”
She flung the fox from her neck and I sidestepped. The little guy landed limply on Billy’s desk. The marble eyes stared at me pitifully. I shuddered.
The woman was faux from her toe cleavage to her fake eyelashes. And I had questions about the girls launching the butterfly.
“Faux is a good look for you,” I said looking at her ridiculously long nails. “You should try it in fur. You’ve got it down in everything else.”
Sylvia raked me with her eyes. She took in my hoodie, yoga pants, running shoes, and chestnut hair clutched in a ponytail.
My day hadn’t started well. After my cheery conversation with Jack, I dressed for my morning run. My running partner ditched me for a bowl of chicken cacciatore. I missed my run and my shower. Somewhere along the way, I had added Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker and a few swipes of mascara. I hoped I had wiped the sleep from my eyes.
“So you’re Bill’s hotshot partner.”
She said it like I wasn’t hot at all.
“Private Investigator Cat DeLuca. I’m a lot hotter after a shower.”
She was unconvinced.
I made coffee and filled two large red mugs. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Whiskey, if you have it. It’s gotta be five o’clock somewhere in the world.”
I found a bottle in Billy’s drawer and glanced at my watch. In Chicago it wasn’t even noon.
“It’s five in France,” I said.
Sylvia splashed bourbon in her coffee and clinked her cup against mine.
“Santé!”
She dropped in a chair, and I sat beside her. She fidgeted with her ring and I shielded my eyes. Her rock could blind like a playboy calendar in a frat house.
“How can I help you?” I said.
“I’m afraid you’ll take me for a fool.”
Too late, I thought, siding with the fox. “Try me.”
“I need your services tonight.”
“Tonight isn’t good for me. I have plans.”
My plans included a bubble bath, a bottle of wine, and maybe a sexy comedy on Netflix. And then I was taking two hunky guys to bed with me. Ben & Jerry. Frankly, I was looking forward to both guys.
It had been a crazy couple of days. I was still reeling from Billy’s murder. I closed three cases this week. And if I had to see one more fumbling lover through the lens of my camera I’d—
“It has to be tonight. I’m getting married Friday.”
“This Friday?”
She stuffed something in her mouth and chewed fiercely. “Nicotine gum. Supposed to help you quit.”
“Does it help?”
“Does it look like it helps?” she snapped. “I’d kill for a cigarette. Before this crap with Garret, I hadn’t smoked in years.”
“Who’s Garret?”
“He’s the piece of shit fiancé I’m supposed to marry Friday.” Sylvia sucked her gum fiercely. “A drunk truck driver smeared my Howie’s body all over the Ike. I sued his ass off. And now guess who shows up wanting a share of my grieving money.”
“Uhm…”
“Howie’s gold-digging family! Hell, I didn’t meet half of ’em ’til he was dead.” She stuffed more gum in her mouth. “I didn’t ask for the motherload. It’s not like I pushed Howie into traffic.”
“It’s not like he was a fox.”
“I hate Howie’s family. I want you to off ’em all.”
I gasped. “Kill them?”
“I want you to talk to Howie’s family and make them go away.”
“I thought you meant—”
“That was harsh, Cat. I don’t like your methods.”
Sylvia was possibly the most unlikeable female I’d met since my sister Sophie was born and moved into my bedroom.<
br />
“Where’s Billy? He promised to help me.”
“Billy’s away.”
“We had a deal. I already paid him.”
“I’ll refund your money.”
“Not interested.”
“I’ll double it.”
She shook her head stubbornly.
“I have to be honest with you,” I lied. “Billy has gone on a vacation. I mean a really long vacation. And I can’t help you. I catch cheaters. I don’t negotiate with other people’s families. I have enough problems with my own.”
“Who said anything about negotiating with Howie’s gold-digging family? I told you I was here about my fiancé. You should take notes.”
She shoved a picture in my face.
“Holy hot guy,” I breathed.
The photograph was taken somewhere tropical with white sand, palm trees, and a shared beach blanket. It was easy to understand why Sylvia fell for the piece of shit fiancé. Garret was a hunk with four-pack abs and a disarming smile. His arm was slipped loosely around Sylvia’s shoulder and the butterfly, I noted, wasn’t her only tattoo. Sylvia tucked the photo back in her purse.
Her lip trembled. “After my husband Howie was creamed by that truck—”
“And you became filthy rich,” I soothed her.
She nodded. “I met Garret. He had moved in, and I planned the wedding. But then last week I found Garret going through my financial statements. I was furious but he blew me off. Said he was looking for stationery. Ha!”
“You didn’t believe him.”
“There’s a fat stack on the desk.” She slugged down the last of her drink. “Last night Garret stayed out late. When he came home, he reeked of cheap perfume.”
My head hurt. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to tell me if I should marry Garret.”
“Whoa.”
“I have to know I’m not making a terrible mistake.”
Sylvia didn’t need me to tell her the truth about her fiancé. In my experience, women know when a partner is chipping. We don’t always trust our gut. I know this because my gut was screaming at me when my ex was boinking one of the waitresses at his restaurant. One day they passed me on South Throop Street. I actually fell for Johnnie’s “she was picking up an empty soda bottle” line.
Sylvia reached for me, and I sat on my hands. “Garret is meeting a friend at Bernice’s Tavern at eight. Get close enough to hear what they’re talking about. Let me know how he acts around women when I’m not around.”
It sounded easy enough. At least no naked pictures were involved.
I said, “I should warn you I’ve had more experience with men you wouldn’t want to marry.”
She laughed and splashed Billy’s bourbon in my coffee.
And just like that, I watched my bath bubbles disappear.
Chapter Sixteen
I jetted home for a quick shower and a change of clothes. I blow-dried my hair and slipped on a three-quarter sleeve blouse and a pair of skinny jeans. I sat in my office and was checking emails when the phone rang.
It was Savino. “Hey, Babe. I met Kyle Tierney. He has a rock-solid alibi for the night Billy was killed.”
“Of course he has. He’s a liar.”
“He also has security footage at his house. He was in at eight. Didn’t step outside until five the next morning.”
“Tierney ordered the hit. He’s guilty as the schmuck who pulled the trigger.”
“Maybe.”
“Cristina told Billy what really happened. Tierney had to waste him.”
“Why? He served his time. Billy’s testimony didn’t have any punch. Hearsay. It wouldn’t stand up in court.”
“I can’t believe you’re defending him.”
“Kyle Tierney is a calculating guy. He’s not impulsive. He’s not going to order a hit on a guy in a Santa suit for pissing him off. If he had Bonham killed, there’s a solid motive we haven’t uncovered yet.”
“You can bet your cute ass there is.”
I heard Savino smile. “How much do you really know about Billy’s client?”
“Uhm…”
“There could be more to the story than she’s telling. Did you check her out?”
A professional guffaw on my part. “Nope.”
“You’ve been through a lot, Cat. And you were taking over for Billy. I’m sure Cristina was convincing. You want me to run a background check?”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll have Rocco take care of it.”
I glanced around the seat and smiled. Cristina had left a soda can in the car.
“I have her prints.”
***
My brother picked up on the first ring. “Yo.”
“I need to see you, bro. Where can we meet?”
Jackson mumbled something in the background.
“My partner’s hungry,” Rocco said. “We can meet at Mickey’s.”
“Gotcha. On my way.”
“Last one there buys lunch.”
“You’re almost there, aren’t you?”
“Walking in the door. Jackson says, bring mucho dinero. He could eat a horse.”
“Order for me. Extra peppers. Hold the horse.”
Ten minutes later I skated into Mickey’s with Cristina’s soda can in a zip-lock baggie. Our server was just serving heaping plates of golden fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and coleslaw.
Jackson leaned over, took half the chicken off my plate, then pocketed the soda can. “Evidence from another slap and tickle?”
For some strange reason, the Chicago PD doesn’t take my Pants On Fire Detective Agency seriously.
“Don’t listen to him, sis. He knows you’re good at what you do.”
“It’s true,” Jackson winked. “I like dirty pictures.”
I made a face.
Jackson said, “Rocco’s playing nice cuz his birthday’s coming up. He wants you to babysit a few days.”
“Cool. My house rules stand. The girls get ice cream every night.”
“Just don’t tell Maria. And I need tickets for the Bears/Forty-niners game. We’re flying to San Francisco for my birthday.”
“I’m guessing the game’s sold out.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Nope. I just want you to be grateful.” I emptied my wine glass. “I saw Mrs. Bonham this morning. She wants to know what’s going on with the investigation. What do you have?”
Rocco blew a sigh. “I can tell you what we don’t have. Not a witness, a weapon, or a motive. It’s like somebody shot Billy and disappeared into thin air.”
“But you have the man responsible. Billy’s death is on Kyle Tierney. I’m sure of it.”
Rocco opened his mouth to say something and changed his mind. He stuffed in a mouthful of mashed potatoes instead.
“Captain Bob was right about one thing,” Jackson said. “Bonham bought trouble like a horse draws flies.”
Rocco smiled. “Billy loved the ladies. They bought him more than a little trouble. If you’re right about Tierney, this bartender chick could have been the final ticket that checked him in to the wooden Waldorf.”
“Billy was a sucker for a good-looking woman,” I admitted. “Here’s an example. Last week two blonds picked him up at a bar. They took him home to play strip poker.”
Jackson said. “How can I meet these women?”
“Bonham?” Rocco said doubtfully. “There had to be a whole lotta alcohol involved.”
“Women loved Billy. He was down to one sock and his undies when one of the women screams that her husband is home. They push him out a window in his tightie whities. He couldn’t get his stuff back.”
“Ouch. The dumbass got hustled.”
“That’s what I told him. But he still didn’t get it. Billy t
hought those blonds were crazy about him. It’s just as well, I suppose. He was going through a messy break-up. His ego needed a few strokes.”
“That’s a full-fledged beating,” Rocco said. “I’ll ask around at the station. There could be other incidents.”
“Keep it on the down-low,” Jackson said. “We don’t want to piss off Captain Bob any more than he already is.”
“What’s wrong with Bobby?”
“He’s getting a lot of pressure from the guys upstairs about the Bridgeport Bandit. Jackson and I have been after this guy for weeks. Nada. We’re getting reamed by the press.”
I said, “If you want some help, I—”
“We got it handled,” Jackson said hastily.
I pointed to the bulge in his pocket. “Those are Cristina’s fingerprints. I appreciate you running them for me.”
Rocco and Jackson looked at each other, then me. “Why?”
“I’m not sure her story is adding up. Cristina said Tierney had her diamond earrings. So we, uh, kind of broke into his safe.”
“You broke into the Irish Pub? Dammit, Cat. Bob told you to stay away from Tierney.”
“He wasn’t there.”
If my brother’s fingers weren’t busy with a chicken breast, he might have tried to shake some sense into me.
“In case you were interested, the results were zip on the earrings. But Tierney left a note in the safe for Cristina. It said she has something that belongs to him.”
“What?”
“The diamond earrings.”
“You said Tierney had them.”
“That’s what Cristina thought. And Tierney thinks Cristina has them.”
“So where the hell are they?”
I shrugged. “The note said he was coming for her.”
“That’s a threat.” Rocco said.
Jackson deadpanned, “Do you want to report the threat you found in Tierney’s safe to Captain Bob?”
“You’re hilarious.”
“It looks like Cristina was shaking more for Kyle Tierney than his martinis,” Rocco said. “Makes you wonder what else she’s lying about.”
Jackson grunted. “If Tierney left a note, he expected her to break in. But why? Not for the earrings.”
“A couple of his guys were waiting too,”
“Dammit, Cat.” Rocco said.
